Death's Not All It's Cracked Up To Be
by Limerick16
Summary: Death and thoughts, flowery narrative and some conversation thrown in...R
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate nor any of the characters that were created by those that make the real money. I do however own any and all characters/plots that are not immediately recognized as normal (i.e. Sheppard, Weir, McKay, etc…).

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Death's Not All It's Cracked Up to Be!

They say that in death you don't feel anything. They say that it's like floating on clouds, surrounded by the feeling of pure serenity. They say that all your worries evaporate and that there's nothing to worry about. They were half right.

The light at the end of the proverbial tunnel was dark. If it ever had been active and functional, then they had forgotten to pay the electric bill, because it wasn't on tonight. As my consciousness kicked into high gear, I became acutely aware that I wasn't in Kansas anymore as Dorothy would have said. I was floating in a black abyss and I couldn't tell my body from the encompassing darkness. Hell, I wasn't even sure that I had a body anymore. Damn, if this was what Death had to offer, then I was all for telling the big Man upstairs what He could do with his eternal bliss. I'd had enough, where was the exit?

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"Doctor, you have to stop now. There's nothing that you can do. He's been flat-lined for 30 minutes now. You need to call the time of death," the nurse morosely called.

The nurse hated to be the one to say it, but it needed to be said. No one wanted to be the one that brought reality to words. Each person, in their own way was hoping that there would be a miracle and that those words would not have to be uttered on this dreadful day. There was already so much pain, so much tragedy.

The inhabitants of Atlantis were so bogged down in despair that it clung to them like a favorite t-shirt - battered and worn - but comfortable and well liked. Death, hatred, loss, they were there everyday and the members of the expedition had begun to live side by side with these moral enemies in a resigned submission. Death was life's inevitable buddy. Since they'd arrived in this torturous galaxy, trouble had met them at almost every turn. It seemed that they could never quite get a break. Every time they were close to calling it a miracle they'd survived so long without a mishap or misfortune, a new and unforeseen tragedy would strike down another valued member of the expedition. Sometimes that member would get back up again, abet disheveled and a bit worse for the wear, but up none-the-less. But, there were times that the afflicted member stayed where they lay. And those times were becoming increasing more frequent.

The nurse's voice cut through the chaos that had previously been present in the infirmary. Her vocalization made clear the reality of the situation and forced those around her to stop and digest what had just occurred. The end result was a total 180 from the moment before. Movement stopped, voices silenced, thoughts kicked into overdrive - the infirmary went dark. The only evidence of life was the incessant whine of the heart monitor that had no heart to further monitor. How ironic.

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He hated this. No more than that. He absolutely abhorred this, but he couldn't for the death of him see the way out. His consciences had grown weary of the perpetual murky darkness and he had begun to visualize life. In his mind's eye he saw the people that he most cared about. They were all there. His parents, his childhood chums, college friends, work acquaintances, even the Atlantis expedition members joined the party for a bit. The miniature memories danced around in his mind telling him of past excursions that meant nothing now. He listened to them chat to him about forgotten memories and times not so long ago that felt to him as if they'd occurred a millennia ago. The more he listened to these voices of the past, the worse he felt. It was as if ever memory, every thought, every detail of his life were being viewed one last time while the director of this sadistic little film cut them out of the reel of his life. As each memory was snipped and fell to the cutting room floor, he felt less and less sure of anything. He had wanted so much to return, to go back to Atlantis and towards the hazy grey of life, but now it was different. He felt like Jonathon Brandis in the Neverending Story 2 where every wish hollowed out his brain until there was nothing left but the shell. As more memories fell victim to the editor of death, he cared less about what was before and even what was now. He almost welcomed it when the last memory faded from view and all that remained what the inky night that had always been present. Into that night he now floated, unaware and uncaring.

This is my first fan fic…let me know what you think and whether I should continue.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Same as previously stated and won't change.

Thanks to those that reviewed…not 100 sure where I want to take this story, but I hope you'll be patience and stay with me. If you have any suggestions or directions you think would be good, let me be acquainted with.

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_They say that in war there are casualties. This is a fact that cannot be changed no matter how much you wish and plead…No matter how much you get down on your knees and pray to whatever benevolent (or malevolent) being sits on their holy chair laughing at all of us pitiful grunts fumbling around looking for our heads when they're stuffed so far up our asses that it'll take that a pair of proverbial pliers to pull them back out. This is the reality and it's not going to change the moment I open my eyes. If anything, that will only make it all the more real. But I cannot pretend to sleep for the rest of my life (however short that may be as it seems all our days are significantly numbered since entering this godforsaken galaxy)._

The Major cracked one sorrow ridden eye open and then the next, ever so slowly as to allow himself time to quickly seal them again should it become necessary. Sorrow and grievance were the only words that came to mind to describe the scene in front of him. He watched as Beckett wiped a blood stained glove across his glistening brow, oblivious to the crimson streak left in the wake of this unconscious act. He watched as a nurse retreated to the distant corner in order to let her tears be released. He watched as other nurses (where did they all come from Sheppard mused) began the terrible task of erasing the evidence of the man's passing. They went about clearing away the polluted objects that failed their skilled hands and tried their hardest to instill a sense of peace in a place where it had long ago fled.

Time passed in a blur that was all too fast and yet way too slow and through it all Sheppard watched from his front row seat, unmoving and unnoticed. The dirty materials were thrown away, the machines turned off and returned to their various homes around the infirmary, the nurses dispersed and Doctor Beckett retired to his office to mourn in solitude. The body was covered and if it weren't for the fact that the crisp white sheet extended past the customary point of the shoulders of the individual and on over their head, one might have been able to fool them self into believing that he really was just sleeping a temporary sleep and not an eternal sleep.

But such dreams were for the naive and as much as the Major wished at that moment that he could be so naive as to believe that this had all been some sad twisted joke, he couldn't. There was too much ill achieved knowledge that weighed down on him and crushed his fragile fantasy.

The scene and the feelings that had risen to the surface as a result were forcing their way into his conciseness and demanding to be heard, analyzed and dealt with. But he couldn't…wouldn't…deal with them now. It was just too hard, the pain too fresh. So he did the only thing that he could, bottled the emotions up, capped them tight and filed them as far down in the cabinet of his sub-conscience as he could, where he wouldn't have to deal with them. They would be in good company there, at home with the rest of his true feelings and sour memories. All the things that plagued his tortured soul lived on these shelves and would until the day Sheppard chose to bring them out and examine them so as to rid himself of their tainted stain upon his soul. But that day was not today, and not any day that he could foresee in the near future.

This is what he thought as he slipped silently from the confines of the infirmary, which had become a morgue, to the now deserted hallway out front, and began to walk. To where he wasn't quite sure and at the moment he didn't really care. He may have looked like death warmed over, but his heart still beat stubbornly inside his chest and he decided this was reason enough to leave, or so he rationalized. So what if it was an irrational rationalization.

The problem with bottling and storing emotions is that eventually the shelves will break and the bottles will come crashing down only to crack into a thousand tiny pieces, allowing for their fermented poisons to leak out, all the more potent for having been stored.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Disclaimer: See first chapter

Once again thanks for the reviews and I'm glad that there are a few people out there that are enjoying my fumbled attempts at writing.

Sorry if you don't like the way this story is going, progressing, moving, etc., I've written the ending already and am having a bit of writer's block about how to get to it(too many ideas that are half formed). Hopefully you'll all stick around.

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"_Casualty of War," _Major Sheppard rolled the words around in his mouth as he mulled over the multiple connotations. Sour acid assaulted his taste buds. The taste was a now permanent fixture, a good compliment to go with his dour mood. How could three little words carry so much weight? Each word, a series of nails in the coffin, so to speak. Each word, a mental burden that his synapses turned into action potentials of rapidly fired energy carrying with them an imaged physical pain to accompany the mental anguish that he was in.

There were so many that had died since entering this galaxy and embarking on what they were led to believe would be the adventure of a lifetime. Yeah right, what a load of bullshit that had turned out to be. The Atlantis expedition had turned out to be, in more appropriate turns, the struggle of a lifetime. The struggle for acceptance by new races. The struggle for forgiveness by those same new races once they'd learned that it was the Atlantians' fault that the Wraith were culling generations early, make that my fault, John corrected himself with a mental cringe. The struggle to sustain themselves as their rations continued on their constant downward spiral. And lets not forget, the struggle to survive. That little problem just begged to be acknowledged and everyday it was ignored just meant that the next day it would let itself be known with a vengeance.

Good men and women were dying like fireflies drawn to the false security of a brilliant light bulb. Many of these brave souls were people that he'd just meet recently and never had the chance to fully get acquainted with, but that didn't change anything. Their deaths were still on him; the crimson that flew through their once lively veins now flowed black and angry across his heart. He was the head military man on Atlantis. That meant it was his duty to protect these people. And as each flame was snuffed out, he felt yet again his failure to provide this much needed and expected commodity.

No matter how hard he tried to ignore the memories that assaulted him, each laden with more guilt than the previous one, he felt himself sink deeper and deeper into the melancholic abyss that had opened inside his being.

Now, he had the loss of someone that he actually knew as more than a random face in the crowd or name on a roster; someone that he cared for, on his hands. Another tally mark on the wall, another line through the attendance list, another notch in the belt. Death, the Wraith, hostile natives, evil; the bad was winning and all John could think about was lying down and giving in. He had been a fighter all his life, but it was becoming too much. He was getting to old, too tired, and he just wanted it to end. He wanted to see the smiling face of his lost comrade and laugh at his inane jokes. The memories flashed across his cones and rods only to be projected internally in a looping parody of happiness. The hair on Sheppard's arms rose as if in applause to the moviemaker's show and he rubbed at them with his hands feverishly until they became red, but to no avail. A cold had settled into his bones and seeped into all is pores. The cold held him in its grasp as a mother clings a child to her bosom.

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TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Read the other chapters.

Thanks to the all those that have read and to those few that have left comments. I hope that this chapter breaks up a little of the denseness of the other chapters.

He knew that they would be looking for him soon. It was only a matter of time until his jail break from the imprisoning walls of Beckett's lair became know. Then there would be hell to pay. He knew it hadn't been very wise to sulk away in the aftermath of the death-his arm agreeing loudly with this assessment as another wave of pain shot through the complaining appendage. His upper arm looked, for lack of a better term, as if it had decided that it wanted to become Swiss cheese. There were at least a dozen holes hidden beneath the soon to be saturated gauze. Although Beckett had assured him that none of the projectiles had caused any serious harm–something that the Doctor was still amazed by–he could have sworn that the swipe of cloth was the only thing holding the muscle and skin together. His incessant rubbing of his arms in an attempt to eradicate the cold that seemed to now permanently reside inside his bones hadn't helped any, but he'd been too preoccupied to give this concept much thought. His arm felt awful, but the pain in his heart was worse–it over powered and drove down the physical pain, dominating his mindset.

He'd been walking for a while now, down different hallways and through various parts of the city. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a little voice telling him not to stray too far, but he ignored the voice and continued to aimlessly walk on. Time had lost its meaning as grief and guilt battled each other for space on the agenda for that day's reflections.

A loud creak from a rusty cart being pushed by a nervous looking scientist sent Sheppard's already frayed nerves over the edge and into the past. Instead of a rusted hinge in need of a few drops of oil, Sheppard heard the crack of a pistol. He immediately ducked, reaching for his P-90 as he did so, his eyes scanning the foliage for any sign of the perpetrator.

"Sir, we can't stay here much longer. Pretty soon one of their pot shots is going to find its mark," Lieutenant Ford informed his commanding officer.

"I know that Lieutenant, but we're kinda blocked in at the moment if you haven't noticed," remarked Sheppard. He looked around again at the dense foliage that was doing the dual job of concealing them from their pursuers as well as concealing their pursuers from them. He listened carefully to the sounds that emulated around him trying to judge how many attackers there were and what their positions were.

As if reading his thoughts, Teyla spoke up, "There are five that I can hear directly near us, while there are another three or four some distance back. Those closest to us will discover our position in a matter of minutes."

"Alright, Teyla, Ford, on my signal grab McKay and run as fast as possible to the gate. I want you to dial Atlantis and the three of you to go through the iris as soon as you've sent your IDC."

"What about you, sir?"

"I'm just going to make a little distraction. Don't worry I'll be there before the gate shuts down, you won't even know that I was gone."

"Major, I do not believe that this is a very good plan. What if…"

"I don't have time to argue with you over this right now. Teyla, just do as I say. Alright, get ready to go…GO!"

Sheppard darted through the foliage, P-90 raised in front of him, ready for the battle that was sure to come his way. "Hey knuckleheads this way. Yeah you with the ugly shirt, look over here," he shouted. His shouts having caught the attention of those soldiers closest to the Atlantians, they raised their heads and spotted their quarry. Guns changed trajectories and a volley of shots rang out over the Major's head.

"I'm glad these guys a lousy shots," muttered Sheppard as he turned and ran the opposite direction of the gate, taking with him the bulk of the expedition's problem.

Ford heard the Major's shout to go and snaked one hand beneath that of the semi-conscience scientist's shoulder while Teyla grabbed McKay's other side.

"…Just five more minutes Mom, then I'll get up, I promise…" came the mumbled protest as the scientist was pulled to his feet.

"Sorry, McKay, but Mom's not here and its time to move," answered Ford.

As Sheppard ran interference, the three remaining member of SGA-1 stumbled their way as fast as they could towards the Stargate and their way out of this mess. A warm wind wrapped itself around the three team members and buoyed them on its current, adding some much needed help, as its strong current helped speed them to their goal.

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Sheppard looked behind him and noticed that a large portion of the soldiers were now chasing him through the woods. He weaved side to side, trying to make himself a less likely target to be hit, but even with their poor shooting ability, the odds were stacked against him that eventually one of the soldiers would get off a shot that would find its intended target. He had to get out of their line of sight. Sheppard turned back around intending to locate an inlet where he could duck in so that he was no longer directly in the path of his pursuers, only to be faced with the red-rimmed eyes of Carson Beckett.

Sheppard blinked several times trying to get his mind to understand what he was seeing. The forest was gone, replaced by the grey hallways of Atlantis; a quick look down at his hands showed him that they were empty, no P-90 to be seen. He spun around expecting to see war crazed men, only to look into the very concerned eyes of Doctor Weir. His own eyes widen in confusion as he spun back and forth between the two individuals. "This wasn't happening," he wanted to scream but the words died before they ever reached his lips, getting caught somewhere between his jumbled thoughts and the back of his parched throat.

Carson was talking to him. He knew that from the way that the Doctor's lips were moving and the concern that had snuck into his eyes, but he couldn't hear the words. His senses had begun to shut down as the shock took over and began to consume his system. He saw Carson pointing at this arm and looked.

Red flowed from the wounds whose tenuous closings had reopened during his wanderings and revival. He watched, fascinated, as a single rivet of blood flowed gently down his arm to pool at the elbow, where it slipped slowly sideways and fell drop by drop to the floor. He wondered briefly, why he felt no pain, but the darkness that had begun to encroach on the corners of his vision now filled it completely, and for a brief span of time, John worried no more.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Disclaimer: same as previously stated

A/N for those that were truly upset by the delay in posting, I apologize. I wasn't and I'm still not certain whether I'll finish this flick. I don't know where I want to take it. So thanks to those few that are continuing on the scary road that is my sub-conscience come to light and hopefully you won't be too completely disappointed.

Once again R&R is always appreciated and if anyone has suggestions or directions that they think this should go, please let me know.

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Ah the ever familiar sound of a heart monitor. It invaded his mind and settled into his soul like an old lover even before the fog lifted from his mind enough for John to understand what it was, Sheppard felt that even in death that sound would follow him. It was a beckon that never stopped and always signaled that he was still in the here and now no matter what mischief he had gotten himself into in an effort to leave the corporeal world.

To complement the steady hum of Sheppard's bedside buddy, a Scotish brogue broke into the lingering mist. "Open yer eyes for me lad. I know that you're awake."

He wanted to ignore the voice. To wake up meant to accept the situation and for the first time in a long time John decided that he was tired of being in charge. He was tired of placing the blame upon his shoulders and allowing it to slowly bury him under it. In reality, he was just plain tired of it all. Maybe if he concentrated enough, he could shut his mind down–close it off and sink down into eternal oblivion.

There was too much pain in the light, whereas the dark offered a relief that would have him and Lucifer toasting over the drying ink on the contact. He was perfectly content to remain in the numbing void where thoughts moved like molasses and the bite to the guilt that had previously threatened to overwhelm him was muted. Didn't Carson understand that? To open his eyes now would mean that he had to accept reality and that the emotions that he'd tried so hard to keep stored away would be free to pour through the cracks in his armor.

But the voice didn't stop and the darkness continued to recede. The living were calling and thus the living dead must answer. Glued lashes parted ever so slowly as one hazel eye peered out from hollowed sockets; the other hazel orb joining it shortly thereafter.

"That'a boy, now follow me light for a moment"

The miniature sun burned into his cornea causing the pupils to dilate and Sheppard's heavy lids instinctively closed down once again.

"Now Major, that's not very sporty of you. I have to check yer eyes to make sure that everything's alright with you. You know the drill. So if you'd just open up yer eyes again we can get this out of the way and then you can tell me what the bloody hell you were doing wandering around the halls when ye know bloody damn well you shouldn't have stepped out of this infirmary." The words tumbled from the flustered physician's mouth as his rant continued on. Why the hell couldn't the Major just do as he's told for once the doctor asked his sub-conscience?

Hazel eyes once more looked upon the world. But the eyes where different than those that Beckett had looked into hundreds of times before. The spark that had once burned brightly with a life of their own was gone. The flame no longer burned and this scared the doctor more than anything else in the last few days.

Carson knew how close the Major and McKay had become over the last year. Against all odds these two had formed a bond that linked them together so completely that it appeared at times that they really were two parts of the same soul split into two bodies. And now a half of that soul was gone forever and it appeared that the other half would soon join it if something didn't change real soon.

Carson completed his examinations of Sheppard and told him that he wanted to keep him for another day to make sure that he was okay. As mush as the Doctor wanted to know what had possessed his patient to wander off, he felt that his queries would go unanswered and thus refrained from giving them a voice.

Sheppard listened and accepted Beckett's decision without a single word of protest. He nodded slightly and curled up on his side and stared at the wall. He didn't really care where his physical body was at the moment because his mind was trapped in a warped replay of the past.

At a loss for what to do, Carson patted him lightly on the shoulder before turning and heading back to sanctuary of his office.

"_Best friends talk to each other." The statement was so plain that its meaning overflowed the simple words used to address it. Those six little words held so much unsaid anguish and pain within their hidden depths that had suddenly been laid bare. For it wasn't the words so much as the voice, stance, and emotion infused in them by their maker that caused Sheppard's breath to hitch in his throat._

"_You can tell me you're fine from here to the next millennium, but you and I both know that that's a lie. And a pretty poor one at that," the voice went on. "You always were a coward when it came to sharing your feelings. You know that you can't have a true friendship if the trust is only one sided? Let me help you. _

"_I can't say that I've been there or that I understand because the truth is that I probably haven't been where you are and that I don't have the experiences that you carry trapped around in that prison you call your consciousness. But you want to know the funny part? It doesn't matter. You hear that John? I don't need to have your demons to be able to relate and to help you. I only need to be willing to listen and allow you to find your own answers. Cause you're the only one that has them. _

"_So quit this selfish self-sacrifice crap that you insist on portraying and talk to me."_

_Each word was like a small spear point that chipped away at his carefully constructed façade of a happy-go-lucky flyboy without a care in the world. The words threatened to tear through his shield and release the flood gates. It was so appealing. To open up right there and then. To lay bare his soul, in all its dark glory, but he couldn't do it. His mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish thrust from its watery environment into the air-infested atmosphere of non-aquatic life. It hurt too much to continue to carry his ill-gotten burden, but it hurt even more to release it and risk dampening another soul with his dark deeds. So doing the only thing that he could, Sheppard turned and fled the confrontation. _

_Rodney slowly lowered his eyes and shook his head once before turning himself and disappearing into the empty corridors of Atlantis._

With a sudden jerk, Sheppard's eyelids flew open. He was soaked in sweat and his heart threatened to pushed its way out through his chest. The memory had been so vivid that Sheppard felt he could have turned around and touched Rodney. Why hadn't he just talked to him? Maybe things would have been different then. Now Rodney was gone and another black slash cut its way across his heart and into his pain.

He had pushed away his best friend for fear of scaring him away with the weight of his anguish and now the chance was forever gone. He'd never get to hear his petty whining again or his excuses for why they need to talk 20 MREs on a half-day trip through the gate. The Answer man would no more be there to solve the impossible or supply a witty retort when others had long stopped listening to him. He was gone and with him, went John's chance to unburden his soul in an effort to reclaim his life.

In the shadows of the infirmary, a solitary figure looked out at the Major as his fought his inner demons. "Let the memories come, for only within their depths lie the answers," whispered the figured before it turned and melted into the background of the infirmary.

TBC


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